“Upon my honour, no!” the other replied. “And now you look at me as if you thought that that wasn’t much to swear by. It’s possible that you do not realise it, but your eyes leave something to be desired in the matter of politeness.” “I’m afraid that’s true,” Adele assented. “I have an effect of looking very hard at things, simply because I’m near-sighted. I ought to wear glasses, but they do not suit me.” “Yes,” said Vestalia, with a meditative look, “it would be a pity for you to put them on. They _would_ detract from your face. It is very beautiful as it is--for a dark style.” “Sometimes I feel that I am almost tired of being dark,” confessed Adele. “Your hair is the most wonderful thing I ever saw. I could see that your gentleman-friend at the Museum admired it immensely.” “Oh yes, he said so repeatedly,” Vestalia replied, with a demure display of pleasure at the recollection. Again there was a little pause. Then Miss Skinner essayed another opening. “Your name--Peaussier--would indicate French extraction,” she remarked. “And French people are so very dark, as a rule, aren’t they? My mother was a Creole--from Louisiana, you know--and I suppose that accounts for my colour.” “Well, my mother was Scotch,” explained Vestalia, “and they are sandy.” “The Scotch gentleman that you were with at the Museum--he was decidedly a dark man,” suggested Adele, with a casual manner. “Now that I think of it, so he was,” said Vestalia. The measured and ceremonious ticking of the expensive clock on the mantel had the silence to itself for a space, while the two ladies looked at each other. “So you won’t tell me anything?” Miss Skinner exclaimed at last. “The trouble is, don’t you see, that I am quite in the dark as to what you want to know. If you will tell me just what was in your father’s pockets, I can judge then what gaps exist in your information.” Adele laughed aloud. “I believe you are really a tip-top good fellow, in spite of everything,” she declared. “Do tell me what it is you are doing! I assure you you’re utterly wrong in thinking that I am a person to guard against, to keep secrets from. Come, don’t you see how much I really like you? And you won’t trust me! I suppose it is the blonde temperament, suspicious and unresponsive and calculating. Or no, I don’t mean that, you know I don’t, but you might repose more confidence in me, when I have told you everything.” “Everything?” murmured Vestalia, sweetly. “About papa’s pockets, you know.” “Ah, yes.” “It was all your fault,” urged Adele. “It was you who drove me to it. And if you don’t tell now, goodness only knows what crimes I may not be driven to commit, in addition.”